Look at this: rails and ties, straight and right,

straight through fields of brown and brown—

corn and beans in silo, brown stubble, brown earth.

Here, gone from the city center, the jewelry,

the missions, the pavers and asphalt,

past the worker bees' homes, modest at best,

past the merchants' homes, better, somewhat,

finally, past the gentries' immodest homes,

those on the hill, slight as it may be; then,

fields of brown and brown, and rails and ties,

straight and right, unnatural, but so straight,

and so right and shiny and purposeful.

Here, a farmhouse, falling down, here another,

newer, well kept with notes. Here, the implements—

plows and discs, harrowers and mowers,

balers, trucks, sties, corrals, a silo, all the bits

and pieces, none so straight and true, out here,

haphazard, set out of the way, implements

each set aside, for now, their purpose done, for now.

Come spring, summer, autumn, winter, each

hitched or pulled by an Allis, an Oliver, a Deere,

a Farmall, to pull, dig, tug, scoop, plant, harvest,

each in their own time; and the fields, hilly, 

square cornered, some with fences, but none

so straight and true, all seem to the conductor

to be something hellish, something to be condoned,

maybe forgiven for their imperfections—this,

left and right he sees: drab, despite a flag or motto,

despite every effort, but especially for every 

lack of effort which he sees as something lesser,

lesser but too familiar. Then, the gentries' homes

on the hill, the merchants', the worker bees',

the depot, the jewelry, the missions, the pavers

and asphalt, and then, look: his own home, try

as he might, imperfect, neither straight nor true.